 | Poems: New and Old |  |
Mother.
Why do you call them?
Boy.
They must come with me.
Mother.
Is it for life or death?
Boy.
I cannot tell:
I never heard of Death.
Mother.
Who bade you call them?
Boy. A woman with a veil—she stands there waiting.
Mother. I see her now—her veil is close as night,
But her face shines beneath it, like the fire
Of the first star that mounts his guard in heaven.
I see her lifted hand, I hear her voice
Like thunder rolling among distant hills,
Instant, tremendous, irresistible,
Soul-shaking, world-destroying—O my children!—
The end of our sweet life—the end is come!
[She bows her head over the Children, clasping them tightly. A funeral march is heard: the Boy beats his drum to it and turns to go: the mother listens in agony, still holding back her children. The funeral march changes to a high triumphant movement: she rises, and after a moment opens her arms. The Children kiss her and march joyfully away: she lifts her head with the same proud gesture as theirs, and follows them slowly and at a distance.]
Mother.
Farewell, my sons! The world is changed for me:
But this too you have done—your joy has fanned
My smouldering altar-fires, your pride has burned
To flame and fragrance all my balm of earth—
Child memories, high-built hopes, comfort of love,
Yea! even the touch, the sight and hearing of you—
All's lost, all's won: the gift is perfected!
[She goes out.]
Why do you call them?
Boy.
They must come with me.
Mother.
Is it for life or death?
Boy.
I cannot tell:
I never heard of Death.
Mother.
Who bade you call them?
Boy. A woman with a veil—she stands there waiting.
Mother. I see her now—her veil is close as night,
But her face shines beneath it, like the fire
Of the first star that mounts his guard in heaven.
I see her lifted hand, I hear her voice
Like thunder rolling among distant hills,
Instant, tremendous, irresistible,
121
The end of our sweet life—the end is come!
[She bows her head over the Children, clasping them tightly. A funeral march is heard: the Boy beats his drum to it and turns to go: the mother listens in agony, still holding back her children. The funeral march changes to a high triumphant movement: she rises, and after a moment opens her arms. The Children kiss her and march joyfully away: she lifts her head with the same proud gesture as theirs, and follows them slowly and at a distance.]
Mother.
Farewell, my sons! The world is changed for me:
But this too you have done—your joy has fanned
My smouldering altar-fires, your pride has burned
To flame and fragrance all my balm of earth—
Child memories, high-built hopes, comfort of love,
Yea! even the touch, the sight and hearing of you—
All's lost, all's won: the gift is perfected!
[She goes out.]
| Poems: New and Old | |